


forgotten if they're green or they're blue

by twelvenervouscats (crazybeagle)



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Everyone lives/Nobody dies, Hurt/Comfort, In this house we respect Sex Workers, M/M, Non-Explicit, Romance, Sex Work, frank discussions of consent, prompto argentum and his weird collection of older siblings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-12 22:40:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29392104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazybeagle/pseuds/twelvenervouscats
Summary: It’s the precision of his movements, the lightning-quick steps, fluid grace that’s impossible to look away from.Noct’s certainly looking.(Or, the Moulin-Rouge-flavored AU that nobody asked for.)
Relationships: Prompto Argentum/Noctis Lucis Caelum
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	forgotten if they're green or they're blue

**Author's Note:**

> Got nothing to say for myself. Content warnings in the tags.

The table’s sticky, Noctis realizes too late as he’s peeling the sleeve of his jacket off of it. Drink’s not bad, though. Sweeter than he was expecting, but with enough of a paint-thinner aftertaste to it that he knows it’s doing its job. And literally nobody’s giving him a second glance at the moment, either, and that’s more than worth the very specific pitch of this music that’s sort of chipping away at his skull, or the vaguely harrowing feeling of so many bodies packed into one room.

“Not your thing, huh?”

Shit.

Noctis doesn’t turn, doesn’t give him more than a sidelong once-over to make sure he shouldn’t be imminently getting the hells out of here. He doesn’t take in much more than a shock of blond hair, a clipboard, a pair of glasses.

It’s probably fine.

Noctis doesn’t confirm or deny it, just sort of waves a hand at the commotion on the stage. “It’s a lot of…” _Thrusting,_ his brain supplies, helpfully. _Body glitter._

“It’s definitely ‘a lot of’ a lot of things.” The guy sounds amused.

“Hm.”

“…not much of a talker, are you?”

Noct bites the inside of his cheek, keeps his face neutral, hears a voice from somehwere between his ears that sounds an awful lot like Gladio’s reminding him that just because _he’s_ in a shitty mood doesn’t mean he should be shitty for no reason to people that aren’t. Damn but this guy’s got a chipper voice, though.

“Well,” said guy goes on, “if you came to see Nea, I can go and—”

The rest of his words are cut off by a _bang_ that Noctis feels as much as he hears, that has him halfway out of his seat with his heart suddenly rammed up his throat before he realizes that it was the sound of an elbow coming down hard on the table.

“Ah—shit, sorry ‘bout that!”

When Noctis turns to face him fully then, it’s to find the guy propped up on his elbow on the table, looking startled himself.

Noctis gets a better look at him, frowns. “Are you okay?”

He looks very much not Lucian, Noctis thinks, Niff maybe, if the light hair and eyes are anything to go by, and the freckles that stand out like pinpricks under the colorful lights. But a good chunk of the clientele around them look like foreigners, so do more than half the performers onstage at the moment. Not unusual, considering the district Noctis had wandered into not entirely on purpose.

His face looks open and friendly, but he seems distinctly unwell—there’s something sunken and shadowy in the corners of his face, in the hollows of his eyes and under his cheekbones. Noctis can’t tell if his pallor is just from the lights just washing him out, but it’s definitely not hot enough in here for him to be sweating like that. His hoodie hangs off his shoulders a bit, and it looks like his hair had been carefully gelled up at some point, but had gotten rumpled and half-deflated like he’d slept on it. His fringe is sticking to his forehead, hanging a bit in front of the thick-rimmed glasses.

“Yup,” he’s saying, a smile slotting into place that seems unforced but a little incongruous. “Yeah. Head rush, is all. Sorry.” He’s perched on the stool across from Noctis now, sliding his clipboard onto the table. His arm is trembling, very slightly, where it’s resting on the table.

Noctis feels his mouth twist, and he slides the still-untouched ice water they’d brought him across the table.

The guy blinks, looks at the water and then Noctis’ face, smile slipping into something marginally less comfortable. “Oh. Nah, you’re good, dude. Thanks. Just. Gimme a sec?”

“Sure,” Noctis says. He doesn’t take the water back. He peers down at the clipboard. It’s not anything comprehensible to him, a lot of x’s and arrows, circles and boxes, only a few words scrawled illegibly into the margins here and there. “You working?” he asks.

“Ah, yeah,” the guy says, tilting the clipboard a bit so he can see it better. “It’s choreography. Kind of. Nothing super inspired tonight, though.”

“Oh. So…dancing?”

“Yup.” He jabs a thumb at the stage, expression settling into something much more relaxed, if a bit sheepish. “I’m supposed to be up there right now, actually, but. My stomach’s being kinda weird, and I don’t think people are paying to see me puke all over everyone else, so. Dahlia stepped in for me.” He points to center stage, where a now very much topless woman with dark lipstick and a halo of brown curls is doing something that looks physically impossible involving a folding chair. “It was her night off and all, too.”

Noctis looks from the woman on the stage, to this disheveled guy who looks like he’s going to pitch over in his seat, and back again. He must be pretty obvious about it, because the guy chuckles a bit. “Uh-huh. Hard to believe, right? I promise I clean up nicer than this.”

And Noctis genuinely has no idea what to say to that. He takes a sip of his drink.

“Uh. You know, if this isn’t your scene, and you weren’t here to see Nea, there’s quieter places to go get plastered around here. And cheaper. The next block over from here there’s this great little— _oh_ mygods, you’re the _Prince_.”

Well, fuck.

“Says who?” Noctis counters, tiredly.

“Says your _face_ ,” the guy sputters. After a pause, adds: “And the fact that you keep checking if your drink is spiked.” He taps the tabletop with one finger, where two little plastic tabs are lying used, the pale blue color of one end indicating safety.

Noctis resists the urge to roll his eyes; takes another, much larger gulp of the aforementioned drink. He’d had the tabs in his wallet.

“I can, like…leave now. If you want.” He’s already standing up, and already catching himself on the edge of the table with one hand.

“What? No, you’re—”

“There you are, asshole.” A heavy hand on his shoulder, then Noctis is wheeling around to look up at a very unimpressed-looking Gladio.

“Uh-huh,” Noctis mutters. “Here I am.”

Honestly, Noctis thinks he ought to be impressed with himself that he got as much time as he did, considering the genius move of having used his subway card when he’d taken off out of sheer muscle memory. He’d left his phone—and its state-of-the-art tracking capabilities—charging by his bed, though, and he’d gotten three entire hours out of it. It probably would’ve been less if he hadn’t wandered for 20 minutes after getting off at a completely random subway station, or had tried to go somewhere quieter and more predictable than this, with less flashy neon or people losing their clothes.

“Who’s blondie?” Gladio asks, raising an eyebrow. “You work here?”

The blondie in question’s eyes go very round—a pretty common reaction to Gladio’s entire _every_ thing, really. “Uh-huh.” To his credit, his voice cracks only very slightly. “I dance.”

Gladio gives him an appraising look, glances at the stage, then shrugs. “Oh,” is all he says. “Nice.” If doesn’t believe it, he gives no indication.

“Uh. Are you a bodyguard or something?”

Gladio’s eyes narrow at Noctis, who just shrugs— _the jig’s up_. “Or something,” he parrots. “Speaking of,” he adds, rounding on Noctis, voice dropping into a growl, “I don’t have to tell _you_ what a fucking security nightmare this is.”

“Yup.” He makes no move to stand. “Planning on telling my dad? Or yours?”

He scoffs. “Y’know, getting my own ass kicked over this might just be worth watching you get grounded like a high schooler playing hooky.”

“Do it, then.”

They both know he won’t. Check and mate.

“We’re leaving,” he says, shoving at Noct’s shoulder. “Iggy’s waiting in the car.” A pause, and his face changes. “You know he’s planning on apologizing to you. And if you don’t say it back, I’m gonna kick your teeth in. You were being a dick.”

“Yeah, well.” Noct would contend he wasn’t the only one, but he _was_ the one that went AWOL and probably (absolutely) gave them both an aneurysm over it, and had them crossing half the city to find him. Which constitutes a dick move. That hadn’t been the point, though; the point had been the bone-deep urge to just be _away,_ just for a bit, before he could say anything else he’d regret. But he could stand to apologize to the both of them for the runaround, at least.

Gladio’s giving him a long, hard look, now. “Fine,” Noctis mumbles, fishing out his wallet.

“On the house.” The words are abrupt, a little too loud to be warranted despite the room’s overall noise level, and Gladio and Noct both look over at him.

“Uh, I mean. It’s covered. You can go.”

“Okay.” Gladio raises an eyebrow. “Thanks. Got a name, kid?” Noct knows it’s less out of actual interest and more as a rote point of security; if anybody needed to be questioned later on, they’d have a starting point.

“It’s Prompto.”

***

This time, Noct drove. Gladio had worked out pretty quick where they were headed when Noct suggested they go for drinks after they’d trained late.

Gladio doesn’t have to be thrilled about it. But at the very least, Noct’s got some supervision, this time around.

He should’ve put up more of a fight, probably, but it’s not like he could’ve stopped the damned car.

And here they are. _Club Aurentia,_ the sign cheerily proclaims, complete with a flickering neon clementine in the corner. The building’s old, not exactly dilapidated but definitely not retro-on-purpose. Plenty of people are coming and going through the tarnished brass doors, or milling about outside, even on a weeknight.

“You do know how very obviously a brothel this joint is, right.” No shade, just a statement of fact.

Noct huffs a short sigh through his nose, drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “Yeah. Iggy was pretty damn clear on that point. Not like that’s why we’re here.”

“Still don’t get why it’s gotta be _we_ anyways. If you’re really that worried about the tab for one drink, it’s not like it’d take both of us to go settle it.”

Noct just shrugs.

Fucker.

It’s not like it’s a bad idea to make sure the charge is covered, arguably worth the trip across the city, even; if he’d been recognized they didn’t need anyone claiming that the Prince is the type to skip out on a bill. The employee had seemed like a decent enough guy, and herding Noct back to the car had been a more pressing priority at the time than any overpriced cocktail. But yeah, ideally, better to head off the issue.

Which is a one-person job.

“This about that kid from the other night? You worried or something?” 

_Or something._

Huh.

Noct makes a noncommittal sound, suddenly seeming quite fascinated by a loose thread on his sleeve. “I mean, if he’s there we might as well thank him.”

“Fine. But you know you’re not here to socialize though, right. We pay, we leave. You already got recognized once, and if word gets out you already know who’s gonna wind up doing the damage control. With time he doesn’t have.”

The Citadel’s entire team of publicists aren’t worth shit by comparison, honestly. And just because Iggy doesn’t exactly know they’re here right now doesn’t mean there’s not an 80-20 chance he’ll figure it out anyways, even if precisely nothing happens.

“I know,” Noct mutters, and for whatever it’s worth it sounds like he _does_ in fact know. And probably still feels like an ass for blowing up at Iggy the other day.

Which, good.

Gladio sighs, yanks open the car door. “We going, or what?”

***

The lobby’s not as packed as it was before—that was Saturday night, and it’s Tuesday now—but there’s still a good line snaking its way up to the ticket counter. Looks like a working-class crowd for the most part; the easy chatter between friends or coworkers washing over the narrow space. And Noct doesn’t _exactly_ look out of place; he’s in a hoodie and jeans that don’t look as expensive as they are, and there’s about as many Lucians here as foreigners. But he looks stiff and ill-at-ease on the old chintzy carpet, staring off into nothing, the yellowed light from both the dusty chandelier overhead as well as the strands of what look like multicolored Solstice lights on the far wall glinting off his hair.

Gladio elbows him. “What, you nervous?”

“About what?” Noct shoots back, under his breath.

“Exactly.”

***

“Actually, we’re here to settle a bill.”

The woman selling the tickets raises one pristinely-shaped eyebrow at them, before wordlessly waving them over towards the other woman behind the desk. She looks foreign, too; ivory skin standing out starkly against her black blouse, slate-gray hair pinned back into a complicated updo.

She glances up from her clipboard, green eyes flat and hard as she takes them in. “Yeah?”

She doesn’t say anything for a long moment after Gladio repeats himself, but her gaze immediately flicks towards Noct, and narrows.

“You here to see Prompto?”

Gladio shrugs, not sure if it’s hilarious or worrying that the kid had obviously gone and told his supervisor. “Nah, we’ll just—”

“He’s on in ten,” she says, abruptly, cutting him off. “You wanna talk, you’ll have to wait. And he’s booked up tonight, so make it quick. That is _if_ he’s up for it.” She turns, calls over her shoulder. “Biggs.”

The guy who emerges from the door behind her has an easy stance, a relatively friendly expression, but he’s keen-eyed, and the jacket that’s one size too big would suggest he’s packing.

“There’s no loitering in my lobby. Front section’s a hundred crown each. Nobody’ll bother you there, _Highness_.”

Noct, to his credit, doesn’t visibly react to his title. But it _is_ very clear he wasn’t planning on having to sit through another show. “No, it’s fine, I’ve got the nine crown for the drink.”

“Biggs’ll go with you, make sure you’re left alone,” she says, tone banking no argument, before pointedly turning on her heel and striding through the door behind her.

That’s that, then. If they hang around out here any longer, Noct definitely _is_ gonna get recognized.

There’s worse ways to spend the evening, Gladio thinks as they follow Biggs through the double doors. As long as this guy doesn’t try shoot them in the head point blank in front of a large crowd of spectators, Gladio’s pretty damn sure he could take him down if he needed to.

But Noct looks downright pained as he takes his seat at their table, ten feet from the stage.

“Think she just wanted our money,” Gladio tells him, grabbing the menu and scanning it. Drinks are off the table (for him, at least, though Noct looks like he’s gonna need to knock back at least three to survive the next forty-five minutes), but a plate of wings doesn’t sound half bad.

Noct doesn’t respond. Neither does Biggs, but Gladio hears his soft snort.

***

It’s a good time, really. Dizzying sprays of confetti, bass-heavy radio remix after remix he can feel in his gut, and the loose effortless charm of a dozen guys and girls in various states of undress.

He can see why Prompto’s their headliner. It’s not even that he’s the most eye-catching, really, though he is hardly recognizable compared to the bedraggled, barely-upright kid they’d met the other night--either he’s better now, or he’s buried those dark circles under a shitload of concealer. It’s the precision of his movements, the lightning-quick steps, fluid grace that’s impossible to look away from.

Noct’s certainly looking.

“Flexible little guy, isn’t he,” Gladio says, applauding at the end of a number.

“Hm.”

Noct’s still tensed up, very much so, fingers gripping the table’s edge so hard it might disintegrate, so obviously out-of-sync with the entire situation that Gladio was going to take mercy on him and suggest they take off once they’d eaten, bill be damned.

But he hasn’t taken his eyes off Prompto once.

“You smitten yet?” he asks, snatching another wing off the plate and double checking the exits—nobody’s come or gone—then glancing over at Biggs. Biggs just gives him an even look right back; he doesn’t seem to particularly mind that he’s being surveilled, and Gladio’s sure the guy’s doing the same to him.

Noct flips him off, gulps his drink. The next number starts.

It makes sense this kid’s a choreographer, he thinks. He knows what he’s doing. Gladio might not know shit about dance aside from the obligatory ballroom stuff he’d been made to practice with Iris as a kid to get them both through boring state functions, but he definitely knows a thing or two about controlled, deliberate movement.

Movement which, at the moment, apparently includes jutting out your hips gratuitously and feeling up your own ass.

He _does_ look good, though, dancing aside; hair meticulously gelled into a perfect swoop, hoops in his ears, bits of gold leaf stuck around his eyes. He’s not tall, but he’s got a dancer’s build, lithe and strong, and those heels aren’t hurting any. The outfit’s some drapey orange and gold lamé situation, complete with shorts that look painted on him, strategically placed rhinestones and body glitter scattered across his skin.

It takes a few minutes to notice the scars. The few spots on his back, a handful across his arms and legs. It’s not the color of the skin—it’s obviously concealed, and the light catches the sparkly bits of him just right to draw the eye away—but skin pulls and puckers sometimes, just slightly, not quite moving with the rest of him. Gods know that outfit’s not covering much, but he’s the only one who’s not shedding any layers up here, and Gladio wonders if there’s more beneath that shimmery fabric.

Well. Rough part of town.

It’s not until the very end, at what passes for a curtain call at this place when the lights aren’t quite so bright, that Prompto finally seems to notice them. His expression shifts, just a bit, from the performative but comfortable smile that had stayed firmly pasted on his lips throughout the show. For a split second, his eyes are rounder, the curve of his mouth more uncertain than pleased when his gaze meets Noct’s. But the moment passes, and he’s grinning again, arm-in-arm with the other beaming, panting dancers as cheers ring out around them. Twenty seconds later and the stage is empty.

“Have fun?” Biggs asks, eventually. It’s the first time he’s spoken.

“Uh-huh,” Gladio says, easily, at the same time that Noct says, “It was fine.” God, the kid looks constipated.

“Great. Wait here.” He stands. “Gotta wait for Nea’s say-so if you wanna see Prom, but. He’s gonna be pretty busy after this.”

Noct watches Biggs’ retreating back, an odd look on his face.

“Do you actually wanna see him?” Gladio asks, sliding the still barely-touched plate of gyoza he’d ordered for Noct across the table. “I mean. Your eyes were glued to the kid.” He smirks, waggles an eyebrow, and it earns him a spectacular scowl.

“…dunno,” he says at last, shoulders deflating, jaw working as he stares at the condensation rolling down the side of his glass. “Maybe he wouldn’t want to be bothered if he’s that…busy.”

“Well.” Gladio plucks a gyoza from the plate he’d just handed over. “What he’s not gonna want, probably, is for you to act all weird about his overnight gigs. You knew.”

“I know,” he mutters, just this side of defensive.

“Ain’t like it’s a crime, either, as long as Blondie’s not committing tax fraud.”

“I _know._ ” Noct sighs. “Can’t hurt to see if he’s okay, I guess. Seems like a lot if he was that sick the other night.”

“Yeah.”He pauses, taking in Noct’s stiff shoulders, the full-body tension that’s gonna leave him achey all over in the morning. “Last chance to bail, though. There’s no actual reason we gotta do this part.” He nods at the empty stage. “Looked like he’ll live.”

Another tight shrug, another swig of his drink and a terse “might as well,” and alright, looks like they are doing this part.

***

Ten minutes later they’re shuffled back through now mostly-empty lobby—most of the patrons are either drinking or or migrating to the dance floor now—and led through a side door into a wood-paneled hallway.

Biggs’ hands are full; a steaming cup of instant chickatrice noodle in one hand and a packet of saltines in the other, a sports drink tucked up under his armpit. “He’s already waiting for you,” he tells them, as they come to a halt in front of one of the doors deep into the hallway. “He’s gotta eat something, though. And Nea said you get ten minutes.”

“Guessing you’re here to enforce that,” Gladio says, not caring if it’s blunt.

“And to make sure no one bothers him,” Biggs replies, calmly, meeting his eyes.

He has to remind himself not to bristle at the implications of that on Noct’s behalf—these people don’t know him, and they’re probably not bursting at the seams with fealty toward the Crown, either. The treaty with Niflheim is tenuous, barely older than Noct himself, and the war beforehand had been ugly for both sides. Most Imperial immigrants are refugees, or the children of refugees, having had no choice but to flee to the country that had fared marginally better when their own had become so stripped of resources. And they ain’t exactly living the high life, here.

Noct must’ve realized the same thing, because even though his arms are crossed now, all he says is, “We won’t.”

It’s a cramped sitting room of some kind, both tacky as hell with bright orange walls and décor as loud as the rest of this place, but cozy with its low lighting and squashy armchairs. And no exits but the way they came in. Well. If Gladio needs to pull the plug on this shit a minute in, he’s got no problem with that. Biggs had lost the jacket, at some point, and if he _is_ still armed, it’s not obvious. But Gladio’s been put through the ringer learning how to recognize and disarm assassins of all varieties. And Noct’s not exactly helpless either—quite the opposite—if it comes down to it. Doesn’t mean he can relax any, and if anything happens it is squarely on him, but it’s something, anyways. Damn kid’s gonna be the death of him.

Blondie’s seated with his shins pressed up against a glass coffee table. He’s in a pair of beat-up sweats, but his hair and makeup still look pretty much flawless in the dim light of the room, even the gold leaf framing his lashes doesn’t seem to have budged any.

He makes no move to stand at the sight of Noct; the smile he slaps on looks taut, maybe wary. He meets Gladio’s eyes a grand total of once before decidedly looking anywhere but.

“Hi again,” he says, with a gung-ho sort of cheer that can’t quite seem to get its legs under it, an awkward little wave to match. “Didn’t think you’d be back around…your highness,” he tacks on, like an afterthought.

Gladio frowns. The kid seems winded, words coming out a little breathy and odd. And yeah, he just had one hell of a workout, but twenty minutes on and his chest definitely shouldn’t be rising and falling that rapidly.

Biggs plops down into the chair beside him and sets the soup and crackers in front of him, repeating the directive to eat before anybody can say anything else. And Gladio thinks Noct’s concern, in its veneer of studious indifference, wasn’t misplaced after all. Guy had looked like roadkill a couple nights ago, anyways. He doesn’t, now—mostly he just looks glittery—but still.

Noct sits. Gladio does not. “Didn’t mean to crash your break time,” Noct says. Gods, he looks uncomfortable. “Sorry. You should eat.”

“Thanks.” The kid raises the soup cup to his lips, but doesn’t take an actual sip, swallowing reflexively like the smell of it alone is enough to turn his stomach. He takes a careful sip of the sports drink instead. It’s a brand that Gladio knows for a fact tastes like piss, but is damn good for electrolytes. Beside him, Biggs’ brows draw together, but he says nothing.

“So, uh,” Prompto starts, after a moment. “You have a better time tonight?”

When Noct doesn’t answer right away, Gladio feels a twinge of sympathy for the kid.

“Was fun,” Gladio says, honestly, with a shrug. “You’re pretty good.”

Noct takes his lead, fortunately, and his “yeah” comes out only slightly strained.

“Really?” he says, brows shooting up like maybe something’s not quite adding up here, eyes flicking from Gladio’s face to Noct’s, but he doesn’t look displeased. “Whoa. Thanks.”

“No problem.”

“Nea said you wanted to see me?” he asks, and before Gladio can clarify that that’s not quite what’s happening here, he goes on. “If you were wanting to book, I’m pretty full up tonight, but. Uh. I don’t mind rearranging some stuff? Seeing as you’re, y’know.” He gestures vaguely at Noct. “But you gotta work that out with Nea, she handles most of the scheduling.”

And Noct, hilariously, says, “Book…what?”

Prompto blinks. “…me? Unless you wanted someone else?”

Another one-point-five seconds and Noct’s brain seems to catch up to his mouth. He flushes, spectacularly. “Wha— _no_.” It comes out sharp, louder than he probably meant it to, and Prompto actually starts a bit. “That’s. No,” he says, quieter now, staring very hard at his own knees, looking like he might spontaneously combust and also that he’d probably be fine with that. “That’s not why we’re here.”

“…um. Okay.” A long pause, and Gladio can see the shift in Prompto’s face from puzzlement to something like unease. He might be blushing, too, but the makeup makes it hard to tell. But Biggs is grinning now, clearly at Noct’s expense, and Gladio can’t blame him because he is about two inches away himself from absolutely pissing himself laughing.

He tries to keep it out of his voice when he says, “He came to pay for that drink, is all. And see if you were feeling any better, if you were around.”

“Oh.” He gives them both a smile that’s nervous around the edges, a little wrong-footed but not insincere, drumming his fingers on his knee. “I am. Thanks.”

Biggs raises an eyebrow, gives a pointed look at the soup cup growing cold on the table, but says nothing.

“But,” Prompto says, frowning, “if that was all, then why’d Nea…” He trails off, and Gladio can see the realization hit him. He wonders if they’re the same conclusions he’d come to himself. To see just what they were after, for starters. To keep the sudden appearance of the Prince from causing an ordeal at her establishment. To collect their money, while she was at it. “Sorry,” he mutters, finally, gaze falling as though he’d had any part in this at all.

“It’s fine,” Noct tells him. He looks only marginally less like he wants to die than he did before, but he sounds genuine, at least. “Not like anyone warned you.”

“I’m…” Prompto starts, then lets out a shaky breath. Then, with a kind of dawning horror, “You’re not about to, like. Lock me up for soliciting royalty, or something?” Adds, under his breath, “Shiva, I just _solicited royalty…_ ”

Gladio holds back his snort, wants to tell him that repeating the offense out loud isn’t exactly gonna help his case. Instead, he says, “Relax, kid. We know the laws.” Well. Sort of. _Brothels are legal_ is about the extent of his own knowledge; maybe soliciting royalty was actually a crime. Iggy would know, probably. Freakish knowledge of obscure laws is his forte. “Anyways. You thought it was _him_ soliciting _you_ , you were just doing your job.”

Noct gives him a withering look, which is pretty much the best thing ever when he still looks like a beet. And Prompto does look distinctly salmon-ish now, too, despite the foundation piled on thick enough to blot out most of those freckles. He’s picking at the edges of an old striped sweatband he’s wearing, and Gladio thinks of that gigantic jeweled cuff he’d been wearing on the same wrist, earlier.

Nobody says anything, after that. Prince Charmless can’t string two words together to smooth the situation over, because of course he can’t, and Prompto’s moved on to fiddling with the label of his sports drink, not looking at any of them. Biggs raises an eyebrow at Gladio, a silent question— _which_ _of_ _us_ _is_ _gonna_ _end_ _this_ _first_ —when Noct’s phone goes off.

It’s his text tone, a bright handful of eight-bit notes, and Gladio wonders if it’s Iggy. It’s probably Iggy.

But Prompto looks up, at the sound. He’s smiling faintly. “Heh. Level up.”

Noct’s head snaps up so fast that Gladio almost _hears_ it.

“You play King’s Knight?”

***

**Author's Note:**

> My eternal gratitude to taizi for hearing me out on the entire, unwieldy concept for this one and reassuring me that I'm marginally less insane than I thought--  
> Come yell with me on tumblr @owletstarlet.


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